Whatever You Are
by the-science-of-corruption
Summary: "John." "Mm?" "Whatever you are, you're a good one." John/Sherlock. Boy kissing.


_Whatever You are_

_~30.10.13~_

* * *

Wind howled through the streets of London. John's unfortunately-small stature was challenged simply to get out of the cab and walk the ten feet or so to the door. He'd been wise enough to pay the cabbie before he exited its artificial and temporary warmth, otherwise ten-pound notes may have been snatched from his quickly-freezing fingers and gone arcing into the pearly grey sky.

He was barely inside when the door banged open again and Sherlock staggered through, shoving it shut behind him. The detective's curly hair stuck up in every direction and his nose and cheeks were red as an apple.

"Couldn't get a cab?" John asked by way of greeting.

"Forgot." Sherlock rubbed his strangely-gloveless hands together, cupping them over his mouth and breathing deeply.

The doctor rolled deep-blue eyes. It was astonishing how Sherlock could be so preoccupied in his thoughts that he might completely ignore the affect the weather took on his body.

"Shower. Or bath." Pale, chapped lips parted in protest. "No buts. I'm not putting up with you if you get sick."

With the exaggeration usually seen in theatre for children, Sherlock slunk up the stairs, pouting heavily.

Tossing his coat and hat over his armchair, the doctor set to work warming up the flat. It became unusually chilly when they were gone all day, especially if the weather was blustery. Soon a fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, and the kitchen wafted its delicious aroma throughout every room. John liked that if one makes certain foods, it sometimes smells warm. One of his favourites was risotto, and he was fairly confident he could convince Sherlock to eat some, despite their ongoing case. With risotto involved, it was never very hard to persuade the detective.

The man in question appeared in the kitchen ten minutes into the risotto process, clad in pyjamas and bathrobe (a good sign for eating) and toweling his hair dry. Crowding himself into John's space, he leaned over to inspect the contents of the pot being heated and stirred carefully by the doctor and gave a small hmmm of approval. Several seconds later, John heard ceramic clinking.

"What are you doing?" John called, glancing around but not detecting his flatmate.

"I thought we could eat on the couch," came the deep baritone from the other room. John smiled in satisfaction and continued his preparations.

Their meal was spent in comfortable silence, the telly murmuring and wind quietly whistling in the background. Sherlock had dragged his duvet onto the settee and not protested when John pulled a corner of it for himself, though the sock-covered-yet-icy toes tucked under the doctor's thigh may not have wiggled there simply to achieve their own optimal temperature.

John did the dishes, but he couldn't bring himself to mind much. The evening had been unusually calm and pleasant, and he felt warm, full, and content, so the doctor held no inclination to behave bitterly towards his unhelpful flatmate. As he went back to the couch with two cups of tea, John found he had more of the blanket than before (though the ice-toes remained.)

The detective accepted his tea wordlessly, though his eyes were kept constantly trained on John as the older man set down his tea and settled himself onto the couch.

"John."

"Mm?"

"Whatever you are, you're a good one."

John glanced up at his friend, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What?"

"Well, um…" Sherlock glanced down at the floor, a small gesture that indicated his discomfort with the topic. "Labeling you a 'flatmate' or a 'colleague' would be accurate but horribly inadequate. 'Friend' is better, but you don't quite fit there, eithe r. You're too… much. I…" He hesitated, then moved his gaze further away from John's face, allowing his own expression to become neutral, but the effect was surreal in the firelight. "I thought about 'partner,' but…" The doctor saw a faint blush rise on the detective's sharp cheeks. "But then I realized you may be… uncomfortable… with that particular term. Anyway," he continued hastily, "Whatever kind of person you or I may label you to be, you are a good one."

John was usually very surprised when Sherlock spoke in such tender phrases. Yet tonight was so extraordinary, yet so very domestic, that he simply found himself trying not to smile.

"I see."

Sherlock glanced up finally, flicking his eyes from John's face to his fingers, steadily intertwining in the detective's hand, and back.

The grin broke onto John's face. "Were there any other terms you were… considering?"

His flatmate/colleague/friend/partner/whatever swallowed visibly, and John squeezed his hand.

"'Other half' is the term that I find most satisfactory to the criteria."

This made John laugh and brought a shy smile to Sherlock's lips . A pale thumb ran tentatively across the back of John's hand.

"I love it," John murmured. And then his heart swelled with warmth and love, causing him to lean over and press a kiss, soft and slow, to his other half's cheek.

He pulled back a small bit, coming face-to-face with Sherlock, their noses almost touching. Sherlock's kaleidoscope eyes were soft with affection. The light from the fire cast his face with easy angles, catching on his cheekbones and falling gently against his lips. They were open and curved into a gentle smile.

"I'd rather just call you 'mine,'" the doctor whispered.

"God yes."

And when their lips met, it was as though John had just breathed out a long-postponed sigh. His body relaxed onto Sherlock's; they molded themselves together as smoothly as though they had been designed to be held by the each other. Arms went around torsos and hands into hair and they kissed so sweetly, it felt like nothing besides this would ever be adequate again.

Neither of them could tell how long it was before they pulled the duvet up around each other and fell asleep there, cocooned in warmth and affection.

* * *

Author's Notes...

This is what happens when you spend to much time looking at anotherwellkeptsecret's phenomenal art on Tumblr. I promised to writer her a hurt/comfort, but her work is just so cute and amazing that my feels said, "Write this one, Neenie. Write it now." But you _must_ check out her stuff; it is gorgeous! And she is the loveliest person.  
I'm sorry this one's not all poetic and metaphorical like my other Johnlock. I have to be super-inspired by the show or other fanfiction to write that kind of stuff, and I haven't had the time to watch or read.  
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this piece. Leave a review, if you love me. I could use the good feelings now.

I love you very much!

~Neenie (tsoc)


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